Saturday, April 1, 2017

On Our Way Home

What else could we do? With a tornado
gaining speed behind us and US 50 aiming straight as an arrow toward the
western horizon in front of us, Stefan and I joined in with Eddie Rabbit at the
top of our lungs, singing “Driving My Life Away.”

Naively
discarding anticipation of the unknown, mother and son had plotted an
alternative route to break-up the monotony of the long drive from Arkansas back
home to California.
Little did we know at the time, our greatest adventure would not involve
anything planned. Our greatest adventure would be dictated by Mother Nature.

This
leg of life’s journey began in 1960 when I was sixteen-years-old and met my
birth father for the first time. Nineteen years would pass before I saw him
again. By then, Dad’s health had deteriorated, so I decided not to delay
introducing him to his ten-year-old grandson. With my husband’s blessing,
accompanied by several safety lectures, Stefan and I began planning a June road
trip to Arkansas
via historic Route 66.

###

On June 27, 1981, no longer estranged father,
daughter, and grandson exchanged silent hugs the morning Stefan and I departed
for home. Glancing back to see Dad waving good-bye from his front porch, mother
and son remained silent, each lost in personal reminiscing. Once emotions were
collected and tears wiped away, my official navigator reached for the road map
to plot our drive back to Route 66, now US 40. After a few age appropriate
expletive deleteds while wrestling with the map, Stefan instructed me to drive
south to Fort Smith where we’d merge west onto US 40.

Following
Stefan’s direction, I headed south out of the beautiful, albeit hot and sticky,
Ozark Mountains. With air-conditioning and the
Eagles at full blast, mother and son settled down for a familiar drive home.
Approximately forty-five minutes later, we approached the cut-off to Tulsa. I
turned the car westward.

“Hey!
Mom, you’re not supposed to turn here.”

“Stefan,
what would you say to no one in the whole world knowing where we are for twenty-four
hours—like real pioneers?”

“Cool!
Where are we going?”

“How
would you like to see Dodge City?”

“Awesome!”

“We'll
call your father after we get a motel room in Dodge.”

Our
adventure began: east to Tulsa,
Oklahoma, north to Wichita Falls, Kansas,
then west on Highway 50, the so-called “Loneliest Road in America,” which
roughly parallels the historic Pony Express Trail. Caught up in the moment of
mother and son bonding, the irresponsibility of this detour didn’t occur to me.

As
we approached Wichita Falls, ominous black clouds churned above us. I turned
the radio on to hear a weatherman announcing the approach of a tornado and
instructing locals to take shelter in their storm cellars. Stefan and I looked at
each other and simultaneously said, “Put the pedal to the metal!” Ignoring
speed limits, Wichita Falls
rapidly faded into the background while Eddie Rabbit belted out “Driving My
Life Away.”

Now,
it occurred to me that I'd made an irresponsible decision. No one, not even my
husband, knew where we were. Not wanting to worry my son, I planted a smile on
my face and began mindlessly chattering about how exciting it was to be
surrounded by lightning bolts as far as the eye could see. And, after all,
Kansans are friendly people, so if the tornado gained on us, we’d seek shelter
in someone’s barn. Silently, I prayed, Dear
Lord, please protect my son from harm. I promise to never do anything this
stupid ever again.

By
the time we reached Dodge City, none of the AAA approved motels had any vacancies.
Exhausted, starving, and nerves frazzled, our only recourse was to continue
cruising the main thoroughfare until we found a vacancy. Do my eyes deceive me, or... Not trusting my eyesight in the torrential
downpour, I asked Stefan, “For real...is that neon sign really flashing ‘Vacancy’?”

“It’s
real, Mom! Go for it!”

After
securing the last vacancy in town, I parked in front of room number four. We
grabbed our overnight bags, walked from the car across the sidewalk, fumbled
with the door key, and entered our room sopping wet. Stefan headed straight for
the bathroom. I collapsed on the nearest bed, wet clothes and all.

When
Stefan emerged from the bathroom, I said we’d call his dad right after I took a
hot shower. I wanted to be calm and composed while confessing to my bad
judgment. As I pulled the excessively long shower curtain to one side of the
tub, an image of the shower scene in Psycho
flashed before my eyes. I called Stefan to come look at the shower curtain that
was so long it draped across the bottom of the tub. That was all our frazzled
nerves needed. Mother and son broke into screaming laughter that drowned out
the loud music coming from the party in room number three. Our sides still
aching from laughter, we called home.

“It’s
about time you called! Are you both okay? Where are you?”

“We’re
in Dodge City,
and we’re both fine.”

“What
are you doing in Dodge City?!”

“Stefan
and I thought it’d be fun to drive north to Kansas and take Highway 50 west. You know,
stop off at Dodge City
on our way home and see a gunfight....”

About Me

...wayfaring poet and landscape photographer working as a writer, independent copy editor, and victim advocate.
Leslie is co-founder of Laudably Tarnished, a poetry workshop. Memberships include: PenHouseInk Press; Poetry Center San Jose; California Writers Club, South Bay Chapter; and Henderson Writers' Group, sponsor of the Las Vegas Writer's Conference. Her poems, articles, and short stories have been published in magazines, anthologies, and literary journals. Her "Hacienda Bridge" photo was featured on "Oprah" in 2002.
Leslie is currently working on a chapbook of her poems and a non-fiction book containing interviews of writers and artists drawn to Las Vegas, Nevada.